Drabbles From 221B Baker Street
by hannahjoan
Summary: one-shots about what happens at 221 Baker Street
1. Rain

This is my first story! Comments and reviews would be wonderful.

Of course, I don't own any of these characters. Please enjoy!

John did not care for the rain. Not one bit.

He would chase suspects through the streets of London, getting soaked to the bone, barely keeping up with Sherlock, and question why he even solved crimes after all. The rain would make him loose his footing as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, and he began to question why he bothered to get out of the house. He would become temporarily blinded by the downpour, making it easy for the suspects they were chasing to take a swing at him. He questioned why he even met Sherlock in the first place. They would come back to the flat, John's body aching from exhaustion and bruising. The rain would try to lull him to sleep, but the case was more important. It was always more important.

However, there were days that they had no case. Sherlock would complain about his boredom, which John would always ignore. They would sit in comfortable silence as John would type on his blog. Rain would pour against the windows as he would drink his tea and listen to the violin being played by his flatmate. John and Sherlock would relax to the sound of the rain and crap telly, only to fall asleep after days of casework. They would wake up only discover themselves tangled up with each other. John would remember why he enjoyed solving cases, and why he was glad to have met Sherlock.

John liked the rain on those days. He liked it quite a lot.


	2. Thinking

Sherlock doesn't belong to me, but this story does. Enjoy! Comment and rate if you would like it would make my day!

...

"You'll be pleased to know that I ended up having a row with an actual cashier, not just a machine. This milk better've been bloody worth it," John complained loudly, dropping the plastic bags down on the table, "I'm making tea." He reached for the cupboard, "I'm assuming you don't want any. Do you?" He waited for the mumbled response, but nothing came, "I'm guessing not then."

John raised an eyebrow, confused. Normally he would've at least gotten a response from his eccentric flat mate by now.

"Sherlock? Are you here?" He called out to the empty flat, stepping out of the kitchen. He walked nervously around the flat, afraid of a gunshot or explosion. 'You never knew with Sherlock..' he thought.

"Sherlock..? Helloo?"

He made his way down the hallway, and then became frozen in his tracks. The bathroom door was wide open, showing a view of Sherlock collapsed on the floor.

"Sherlock!" John rushed into the bathroom, examining his friend. Sherlock was unconscious, his long limbs sprawled on the tile, laying beside discarded needles and pills.

John grasped Sherlock's arm, shaking him violently, "Damnit, Sherlock! What the hell did you do? Sherlock! Wake up! SHERLOCK!"

...

Sherlock felt his eyes try to open, and swore to himself. He just needed five more minutes of sleep.. that was all. His eyes eventually pried themselves open, and he was greeted by a searing white glow of fluorescent lights.

'Ugh. Where am I? Why are these walls so white? What's that infuriating beeping noise? Where am I?I didn't put this needle in my arm- why is there a needle in my arm? This is a hospital isn't it? John? John.

John.

_John.'_

It took Sherlock a moment to realize he wasn't actually talking out loud. He stared at John, at his crumpled up form on a rather uncomfortable looking chair. He noticed John's face looked weary, his eyes red and puffy, as if he had been crying.

"...John?" He jumped slightly, not realizing how loud his own voice was, "John."

The smaller man jolted slightly, sitting up in his chair, and looked at Sherlock, his eyes bleary from sleep.

"John, why am I in a hospital?"

His slightly confused face went to immediate rage.

"What the hell, Sherlock? 'Why are we in a hospital?' You bloody know why, you damn prick! Do you have any idea what you could've done? You never think of repercussions of your actions, ever! Sometimes you really are a total bastard! Do you know what Lestrade and everyone would do without you? Mycroft? Do you know what I would do without you? If I wasn't so concerned about the state of your health I'd punch you in the face!"

Sherlock stared at John for a few moments, startled and at a loss for words, "John... I have no idea what you are going on about, but we have somewhere to be. Now would you please help me up? I need to get to Scotland Yard at once."

"Are you mental? You tried to commit suicide, you ignorant...' John flopped down on his chair, letting out an exhausted sigh., "You know what? I'm done. You go on ahead. I'm sick of all of... whatever this all is."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long time. John could feel the other man's eyes on him. Eventually the silence was broken by a drawn out sigh.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to upset you. But you should know, I wasn't trying to kill myself. That would be rather counterproductive, considering the rising body count from this case."

"You? Sorry? That's a first, " John muttered, sitting up in the chair "...What were you trying to do then?"

"I was trying to think!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, throwing up his hands.

"Why couldn't—"

"You! Obviously! For some reason you end up filling my thoughts instead of the case at hand! You're on my mind when you're around, and when you're not. I couldn't think clearly at all, and I had to get my mind unfogged, unclouded somehow."

"Sherlock.."

"It's absolutely infuriating! I mean honestly, you are not that interesting, and this case requires undivided attention! Yet you're all that's in my head, taking over my mind.."

"Sherlock."

"Well, no, the case is perfectly dull, but the fact that you keep popping up in my mind, with your little jumpers, and your tea making. It's unnerving. Ever five seconds I'd be stuck thinking about you, so I tried to get you to go away. Which, didn't work, obvious. That's why we're stuck in this hospital, which I would like to get out of if you would-"

"Sherlock."

"What's so important about you that my mind fixates on? I mean, your intelligence is average, you normally-"

"I love you too, Sherlock." John eventually got in through the other man's rambling.

"What? I never said..."

"What you just described is commonly known to most humans as love. I love you too." John said, his characteristic straight smile painted on his face.

"... Oh."

"Well then, I'm going to go get those release forms.. since you're not, well... trying to kill yourself." John said, standing up quickly, feeling a bit awkward. Sherlock had begun a staring contest with the wall, and didn't seem to be on the planet any longer.

"Hey... Sherlock? Can you promise me something?"

"Yes..? Yes! Yes, anything," Sherlock said, coming out of his dazed state.

"Promise me you'll throw away that... stuff when we get back to the flat.  
>Please."<p>

Sherlock's eyes softened at the sight of his flatmate, at his unconfortable concern, "Consider it done. I don't mind if I can't think clearly.. at least, not now." 


	3. One More Time

Reviews and comments are wonderful. Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

...

_Only one more time._

The stairs creaked underneath his feet. He was so tired. Exhaustion had never bothered him before, but this exhaustion was different. It wouldn't go away, not with sleep, not with medication. Nothing could make his body from slouching, sagging beneath him. Had he lost weight? Did it matter?

Another creak of the stair. Another. Another. He focused on each stair, refusing to collapse.

_Only one more time._

He could feel the blood on his hands. So many people had died, and it was by his hand. His bloody hands. They could never be washed clean. The constant reminder of the news flashing on televisions, the news articles, the unsolvable murders. An untraceable murder spree, with no ties connecting the men and women.

At least, a tie no one knew about. Except him.

_Only one more time._

His body was failing him. He had to keep going. Another step, another creak. The gun in his hand was heavy.

The door flung open, and he was met with horrified faces. He raised his weary arm, and disposed of the two men conversing in the room.

This had to be finished. Even if his best friend could never forgive him for his crimes. For the blood he was spilling.

Only one more time, he told himself, leaving the bodies where they lay, blood soaking the carpet. Only one more time, even though there were so many more members of Moriarties gang to destroy.

_Only one more time, John. Only one more murder. Then I'll come home.  
><em>


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